


Made of Stars

by ChemFishee



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: 2007 Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:14:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemFishee/pseuds/ChemFishee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg has no indication of time other than the absence of sunlight creeping in around the blackout curtains.<br/>(May 2007)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made of Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's csianti_block's challenge 18, power outage. There are spoilers for 7.04 “Fannysmackin’” that are so mild, they _almost_ don’t warrant mentioning. Almost. 
> 
> (Originally posted [here](http://chemfishee.livejournal.com/67854.html).)

Greg kicks the sheet off in frustration. He’s sweating. He hates to sweat. It makes him itchy and uncomfortable, makes him feel like bugs are crawling along and under his skin. He really despises it when he’s sweating after taking a shower only… The familiar blue glow of the alarm clock is missing. Greg has no indication of time other than the absence of sunlight creeping in around the blackout curtains.  
  
He’s reaching for the light on his side of the bed when a heavy leg pins him down, knows who it belongs to without thinking about it, lets out a grunt as he strains to reach the switch. “Oomph!” Fresh perspiration collects where flesh meets flesh. They’re already starting to stick together, and it’s not in the much more pleasant way they had approximately… Greg ruches up the bed, heels digging into the mattress and fighting for enough purchase to give him leverage. The bottoms of his feet are even slick, and he ends up flailing about instead of inching closer to the nightstand.  
  
Greg’s panting with the strain of working against the forces holding him in place. He hasn’t panted like this in… Greg wants to know what time it is, needs to know how long they’ve been asleep since they showered off the remains of the day, is curious about how much longer they can sleep before they have to pretend to be functioning members of society, remembers they have the night off but still _needs_ to know the time. He pushes on the leg flung so carelessly across his hips, trying to get more wiggle room. He winces as the leg creeps down his body, weight shifting to the almost-faded bruises still coloring his skin. He feels his skin stretch painfully with the friction he’s creating, wonders if the coarse leg hair will leave a brush burn on his fair skin. Greg stifles a frustrated, maniacal chuckle at the fact that he nearly lost his life twice and still carries reminders on his body of both experiences, yet he’s worried about marks that will fade within a day. He pushes a little more, but the dead weight doesn’t move. It’s too heavy, the limb tangled with dense muscle. He’s trapped. As he resigns himself to his fate, Nick cuddles in closer, pressing against him from shoulder to thigh. Greg feels the sweat collect between their bodies, feels it dry as it runs in rivulets along hard planes and sharp angles, feels the salt crystallizing on his skin’s surface. He’s going to have to take another shower.  
  
The silence of the house is deafening, and it piques Greg’s interest. When they’d fallen into their post-coital dreamlands, the ancient air conditioner in the living room was straining to chase the heat away. The ceiling fan in the bedroom was circulating hot and marginally less hot air, pushing the denser cool air down on them, wrapping them in a blanket of relief from the oppressive heat. All was quiet now. From the sheen of oil Greg can feel clogging his pores, all had been turned off for several hours.  
  
He closes his eyes and tries to fall back asleep, but the sweltering heat and the gentle snores from his content partner chase slumber away. He feels restless and antsy as he lies there, decides some noise from the TV would be good company, remembers Nick had been flipping through the channels as his eyelids grew heavier, wonders where the remote went. Greg lifts his head, trying not to disturb Nick, looking for the remote even though he can barely make out the shape of Nick’s lips in the dark. He sighs and lies down again, earning a few mewling noises of approval from the other man. Nick smacks his lips and rolls more into Greg, pillowing his head in the nook between toned shoulder and defined pecs, flinging his arm across Greg’s body and putting more of his weight on the slighter man.  
  
Greg’s arm instinctively wraps around Nick, pulling him closer even though he’s sweating more. He takes a moment to revel in the sensation of warm breath blowing across his skin in shallow exhales, thrilling in the fact that he’s getting a chance to see Nick at his most unguarded. Even when their limbs tangle and they move as one, he often feels that there’s a little piece of himself that Nick keeps tucked away under lock and key. Greg’s not sure if it’s inhibitions or secrets or memories or what. It’s become more evident since the kidnapping, like Nick’s too afraid to let go. He makes a note to ask Nick about it tomorrow as they eat their eggs and waffles in bed, hoping he’s just being paranoid. Greg wonders what Nick thinks of the life they’ve built for themselves over the years, knowing that all of his dreams of what his life would be like can’t hold a candle to what he’s got. It’s not perfect – nothing is. But Greg knows that he’s in the minority when he realizes that he still gets excited at the prospect of seeing Nick after a particularly difficult shift, his stomach still flutters like it’s the first time every time Nick reaches for him, his heart still beats erratically when they share a private moment in public or at work. All of the years behind them have done nothing to diminish Greg’s love for the man who captured his mind, body, soul without trying. If anything, the time that’s passed since they both realized life was too short to not take chances has only served to strengthen their bond. Through the ups and downs, the highs and the lows, they persevered and emerged with a stronger partnership.  
  
Greg pulls Nick closer even though the heat is making him uncomfortable. Nick’s murmuring something in his sleep, something quiet, something indecipherable, something that brings a smile to his lips that Greg can feel on his skin. In turn, he feels one of his own forming. Greg leans his head down and places a gentle kiss in Nick’s hair. He feels like he’s about to burst as Nick wiggles closer, delights in the burrowing of a head further into his chest, and thanks whatever deity there is that they’re both here, in this moment, together. Greg feels Nick’s mouth open against his body, but no words come out.  
  
He’s not sure when he first realizes that the stickiness holding them together has changed. It’s… stickier. It takes him a moment, maybe two, to realize that Nick is drooling on him. “Oh, gross!” He pushes up on Nick’s still-sleeping form, trying to get enough space between them so that he can escape. The arm is raised easily, but he can’t get the leg to budge. Greg lies there a moment before deciding to take a chance and slink out of bed. He slides closer and closer to the edge, the sheets bunching under him and his boxers twisting uncomfortably, both making progress that much more difficult. Greg moves in stops and starts across five inches that feel more like five miles. He pauses frequently to listen for disturbances in Nick’s breathing, to determine if he’s about to wake up, to formulate and forget a plausible excuse for why he’s literally crawling out of bed.  
  
Greg reaches for more purchase on the mattress and touches only air. Slowly, more slowly than he crawled to freedom, he shifts his body weight over the edge. His leg comes free, and he uses it to brace his weight. Greg works his upper body free, but his other leg is trapped. Balancing precariously, carefully, Greg watches Nick’s breathing. He waits for a particularly deep exhale and pulls his leg with all he’s got, stumbling as it escapes the prison of limbs. He is more than a little surprised that he’s managed to get out. Greg feels his feet brush against the t-shirt he’d been wearing that was carelessly tossed aside earlier. He picks it up, eyes never leaving the direction of their bed, and wipes Nick’s saliva residue off his chest. “That’s nasty, Stokes,” he mutters, watching the bed a few minutes longer, listening for Nick’s waking sounds, looking for searching eyes.  
  
Greg lets himself out of the bedroom still clutching the shirt. The door closes after him with a soft click. He listens for any signs that he’s woken Nick up, his ear pressed hard against the wood grain. Nothing.  
  
The air in the hallway is even more stifling. It’s only a few days before Thanksgiving, and their house feels like it’s the middle of August. _We’ve never had to run the air conditioner this late in the year,_ Greg thinks as he pads out the hall. Late night trips to the kitchen have taught him where all the squeaky floorboards are. He dodges them like an expert, rounds the corner to find even the DVD player display darkened, notices the refrigerator isn’t humming along. Puzzled, he walks over to the air conditioner. The air around the unit doesn’t feel cooler than the air back the hall. It all feels stagnant and stale. Again, Greg wonders how long they’ve been asleep. He knows it was longer than the half hour to hour they normally spend wrapped around each other, swears they set an alarm, smiles at the realization that Nick turned it off. Unless…  
  
Greg walks to the back door. The window offers him a view of the Maxwell house next door. There’s no lights on there, no faint blue glow emanating from the TV in their living room, no signs that anyone’s home. Curious, he decides to investigate. He pulls the thin cotton t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to his still-moist skin. He pinches the shirt and pulls it away from his body, trying to create a vent. But the heavy air highlights the futility of his effort. Sighing, he disengages the chain, unlocks the door, and steps onto the cool cement pad that Nick has promised repeatedly will become a proper porch once they have enough saved to get a good contractor to do the job. Greg lets out another sigh, toeing a crack in the patio where weeds will sprout in the spring. He’ll have to remember to spray ant killer there as well when Nick’s not looking.  
  
It takes him several moments to realize that there’s something different about the world tonight. His ears pick up no sounds from the Strip. Though they live several blocks away from it in a neighborhood filled with blue collar workers getting by as best they can, Nick and Greg can still hear the hustle and bustle of tourists and addicts alike, hear the shattering of dreams, hear the last gasps of despair when they leave for shift. They’ve lived in this house for three, no four, years, and Greg’s never heard silence like this. He turns back to the house, preparing to go back inside and dig some hopefully cool water out of the refrigerator, when he notices something in his peripheral vision.  
  
Greg’s seen the stars before, slept beneath them when he used to camp out on the beach in an effort to ride the waves of the sunrise into shore, searched the sky with a telescope to find Cassiopeia to earn his astronomy badge in Boy Scouts, gotten out of bed at 3am to watch the Leonid meteor shower with the first man who ever loved him back. But he hasn’t seen them in the almost eight years that he’s been in Nevada. He knew they were still there, watching over natives and visitors alike, unseen guardians holding the wishes and dreams of more than a handful of people. The lights of Sin City usually overwhelm the innumerable photons traveling light years to Earth. The stars in the heavens never have a chance to shine as brightly as the human ones in Vegas. So Greg’s more than a little startled when the twinkling that caught his attention isn’t due to anything man-made. He looks up, getting his bearings, looking at a midnight sky sprinkled liberally with glitter.  
  
“Greg?” He nearly jumps out of his skin, having not heard the door open behind him. “G, what’re you doing?” He turns toward Nick’s sleep-rasped voice, his heart somersaulting at the sight that greets him. Nick’s standing just outside the door, boxers slung low on his hips, a threadbare A &M shirt Greg _accidentally_ shrunk the one time he did their laundry straining to meet the top of his underwear. Nick scratches the day-old stubble Greg loves, exposing a set of obliques marred by half-moon indentations from the younger man’s nails.  
  
“I’m looking at the stars.”  
  
“You can’t see them in Vegas.” Nick takes a step closer. “Were you smoking again?”  
  
“I haven’t smoked in a year and a half, Nick.” He points to the sky. “Look.”  
  
Nick’s eyes follow the line of Greg’s arm to a sight he’s only ever seen at the ranch. “Oh wow…” He stands mesmerized.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“But that’s not possible.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“It’s quiet.” Nick drops his head, twisting his neck to work out the muscle cramp he feels forming. “Hold on a second.” He disappears back into the house and emerges moments later with the caffeine molecule blanket from the back of the couch. He grabs the chaise they borrowed from Cath for a summer barbeque and still haven’t returned, hauling it to the center of the concrete pad. He spreads the blanket over it and lies down. “Come here.”  
  
“It’s too hot, Nick.”  
  
“Please?”  
  
Greg sighs melodramatically and plants himself beside Nick. The support bar digs into his still-tender ribs. He moves closer to Nick, arranging himself as comfortably as he can. “So… What’s up?”  
  
“Apparently the stars.”  
  
“I was the one to tell you that…” Firm lips swallow the rest of his retort. There’s no tongue, no teeth, no lips working against each other. It’s quick, it’s chaste, it’s effective. “Right.”  
  
Nick smiles and plants a soft kiss on the end of Greg’s nose before turning his attention back to the sky. “Know any of their names?”  
  
“Not anymore. I was actually looking for Orion’s Belt.”  
  
“It should already be below the horizon.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“The clock in the kitchen says it’s about 11.”  
  
Greg forgot about the battery-powered clock all the time. He was so used to looking at the digital displays, none of which ever said exactly the same time. “I guess it is too late to see it.”  
  
“Know what I used to do?” Greg shakes his head. “I’d create my own constellations since I could never find the real ones.”  
  
“Everyone does that.”  
  
“Well, not everyone sees a mountain lion head.” Nick sits up, jostling Greg from where he’d been using the warm body as a pillow. “I’m going back to bed.” He stands up.  
  
“Nick!” Nick turns. “I’m sorry.” Greg pats the blanket beside him. “Come show me.”  
  
Nick lies back down, and Greg curls into his side, their positions reversed from what they’d been in the bedroom. Nick wraps his arm around a slightly shivering Greg, pulling him closer. He points to an area of sky directly over them. He traces a pattern a few times. “There’s an owl.”  
  
“Think Earth will still be here when the nova from the owl’s beak finally reaches us?”  
  
“I love it when you talk science.”  
  
“Fine. I’ll be quiet.” Greg rolls away marginally.  
  
“I don’t know.” Nick follows him. They’re lying face to face, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. “I don’t even know what’s gonna happen ten minutes, ten hours, ten days from now. I can’t predict the future.”  
  
“I’m not asking you to.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Don’t you ever think about it, though? Don’t you wonder…” Another kiss stops Greg’s words. A tongue is granted entry, and less-than-fresh breath is shared. “Nice try, Stokes. Don’t you ask questions like this?”  
  
“There’s only one big question I ask. Every day I want to figure out what I can do to make you love me as much as I love you. That’s all.”  
  
And Greg knows it is. Nick isn’t concerned with what others think anymore. He doesn’t need to worry about the world they live in, the legacy they’re leaving for the future. The life they’ve carved for themselves out of long hours and faulty justice and explosions and stalkers and beatings and burials is what matters to Nick. It’s been that way for longer than Greg can remember, and he feels foolish for ever wondering what Nick thought of their life together. He needed the reassurance, he reasons. He leans into Nick, claiming his mouth in a passionate battle of tongues and lips and teeth and moans and hums.  
  
“Ready to go back to bed?”  
  
“Not yet. I wanna look at the stars some more.”


End file.
